


Bless This Mess

by AstroGirl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Moving In Together, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:40:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23781751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/pseuds/AstroGirl
Summary: Crowley's flat is slowly accumulating...stuff.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 146
Collections: Genprompt Bingo Round 17





	Bless This Mess

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Gen Prompt Bingo, for the prompt "Chaos and Order."

It starts off slowly: a pile of books stacked haphazardly next to a battered old reading chair miraculously transported from the bookshop, because the angel likes to stay and read sometimes, while Crowley sleeps. Because he doesn't want to leave before the morning, and how could Crowley possibly object to _that_?

(He never will, not in an eternity of mornings. Not when they still have two million wasted mornings to make up for.)

A tartan blanket follows, tossed sloppily across the back of the chair.

Then mugs in the kitchen, on the floor, on the tables. Mugs with rings underneath them and, sometimes, the dried remnants of forgotten cocoa inside them. 

Crumbs on the floor. Takeout containers piled three-deep in the fridge. Bottles of cologne and other obscure, unnecessary personal products scattered across the once-pristine marble of the bathroom sink. Knick-knacks: kitschy angels and demons that Aziraphale picks up Satan-knows-where and somehow never bothers to take back to his own blessed place. (Plus, all right, a few that Crowley got for him, but those were _meant to be a joke_.) Piles of papers, covered in notes that make sense only to Aziraphale, if they even make sense to him.

And more books. Always more books. Piled in the corners. Stuffed into suddenly appearing shelves that don't remotely complement his décor. Stacked by the bed. By the bed, _because the angel likes to read in Crowley's bed_.

All of it gathers dust. Crowley's given up miracling it away; it just collects faster than he can keep up with.

"Well, yes," Aziraphale says placidly when he bitches about it, "but it does feel more like home now, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," he says, fighting hard to keep any embarrassing feelings he might be having from sneaking their way onto his face. Just casual Crowley. Cheeky, casual Crowley. "Reminds me of Hell a bit. All grime and chaos and..." He picks a sheet up off a pile and lets it drift back down into place again. "...great heaps of indecipherable paperwork."

Aziraphale purses his lips. "Well, it was entirely too Heavenly before. And not in a good way. Very cold and empty and... and ostentatious! But if that's the way you prefer it..."

He raises a hand as if to call power to him, to miracle away all the traces of himself in Crowley's space. 

Crowley grabs his arm, and grips it hard. "Don't you _dare_."

Aziraphale grins at him, soft and smug, like the glorious, triumphant bastard he is. "I knew you liked it, really."

"Fine," he says, dropping Aziraphale's arm. "I give up." And he does. He _does_ , and it feels ridiculously like a victory. "Just move in like you own the place, then. You and all your... your dusty, booky mess."

"Oh, my dear," says Aziraphale. He reaches out to caress Crowley's cheek, and when he smiles, it's as if the sun itself has chosen to shine in Crowley's flat. "Obviously, I already have."

If Crowley trips over a pile of books as he and the angel make their way, kissing, to the ridiculous tartan-covered chair, he can't really bring himself to mind at all.


End file.
